


Sacrificial Lamb

by my_angry_angel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_angry_angel/pseuds/my_angry_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After successfully disappearing for three years, Sherlock Holmes starts getting text messages from different numbers, all bearing the same message. He ignores them all until he gets the same message from John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrificial Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the BBC series, post Reichenbach Fall.

The text came in the lonely hours of the night. The former consulting detective was awake when his mobile went off and he stared at it, perplexed, for a minute. The only person who texted him, who even knew he was alive for that matter, was Molly, and he knew for certain that she was asleep in the next room.

After a moment, he grabbed it from the bedside table and read through the message quickly. “64 Tufnell Park Road” was all it said. He’d been getting the same message every three hours on the hour since mid-afternoon three days before. Always from a different number, none of which he recognized.

Except this time.

He glanced at the sender, expecting it to be another random number, then gave a start as he recognized it. Though it wasn’t programmed in his mobile, he would never forget it.

John.

In the three years since Sherlock had faked his death, the doctor had never stopped standing up for his friend. Through Molly, Sherlock had kept tabs on the blond, and she reported that several homeless men of the city had seen John spray painting "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" all across the city. He'd written to every newspaper and magazine in the city, proclaiming Holmes' innocence and Moriarty's guilt. Even now, so long after the scandal had ended, John continued his efforts to prove that Sherlock wasn't a fraud.

Of course, he’d gotten a new number since the last time he’d texted John, so there was no way the doctor could know who he was texting. But it was too big a coincidence to brush off. As he tried to decided what to do, a second message came through. The message itself was blank, but it had an audio clip attached.

Suddenly nervous, Sherlock loaded the clip and pressed play, his fingers shaking a little. At first, there was no sound, but then soft sounds of struggling started playing. A chill ran through his body as he heard the quiet whimpers, which quickly increased in volume and frequency. The quality over the phone was bad, but he could never mistake that voice. He jumped as something banged in the recording. A moment of silence followed, then muffled screams.

There were a few bumps as the mobile was picked up, then a voice on the other end said, “If you’re not here in an hour, he dies, Sherly.” It was another voice he’d never forget, even if he never heard it again for the rest of his life.

Moriarty.

#

Almost the full hour later, Sherlock was standing outside the row of houses, looking around. There was a single light on in the top floor of number 64, but the rest of the street was dark. His breath steaming in the air, Sherlock made his way up the walk to the front door. The door was, unsurprisingly, unlocked, and the former consulting detective slowly pushed it open, wincing at the hinges creaked.

The dim light from the street showed nobody in the entrance hall, but it did nothing to penetrate the darkness in the room branching off. Not wanting to alert anybody else in the house, Sherlock stepped in and closed the door slowly, leaving the lights off. As the latch clicked into place, he thought he heard the quietest whisper coming from upstairs. He paused to listen for more sounds, but the house was silent once more.

Fully aware that someone could be watching him, the tall man crept farther into the house, bent almost double. He moved slowly, the speed almost painful, but he knew that if he hurried, he could walk into a trap. As he walked, looking for the stairs, he became aware of the lack of furniture; the house was unoccupied. Emboldened by that discovery, he moved a little faster.

Eventually he found the stairs and made his way up them, wincing and pausing each time one of them creaked under his weight. After reaching the landing, a quick glance told him which room he’d seen from outside. All the doors in the hall were closed, and that unnerved him, but not enough to give up on finding John.

Kneeling off to one side of the door, he slowly pushed it open. The first thing he noticed before he looked was the distinct copper smell of blood. Fearing the worst, Sherlock peered around the corner doorframe. Before seeing John, the former consulting detective saw a small card table in the middle of the room. When he stood, he saw that the surface was dented in several places.

John was sitting in a chair next to the table, naked but for his knickers, his hands tied behind his back. Most of his fingers were bent at awkward angles, obviously broken, and judging by the bruises, his right wrist and forearm were broken as well. Three gashes lined each arm, from shoulder to wrist, and all of them bled freely, creating a small puddle beneath his fingers. “John,” he whispered softly, moving into the room. There was no response, but the quiet whistle of his breath told Sherlock that John was alive. For now, at least.

As he circled the doctor slowly, Sherlock took stock of his injuries. Moriarty, or more likely one of his cronies, had beaten John severely. Bruises were already blossoming on his face, and his left eye was swollen and black with a nasty cut above the eyebrow. Silver tape covered his mouth, blood from one nostril dripping over it. The bruises on John’s chest told Sherlock that at least three ribs were broken, possibly four, and five more were cracked. The cuts on his arms were matched by ones on his legs, which were also terribly bruised. Some of his toes were broken, and both feet were terribly bruised. He was, thankfully, unconscious.

His chest was the worst.

Carved into Watsons flesh over three lines were the words “SH = FRAUD”

A cold rage welled up within Sherlock at the sight of those words. John hadn't even known Sherlock was alive. The only thing the doctor was guilty of was having Sherlock Holmes as a former roommate, and he was being punished because of it.

Before he could do anything, he saw the red dot on John’s forehead. He quickly looked around and moved to the window. The church across the street had a high bell tower, and the window at the top was in the right place for the laser from a sniper rifle. He turned around to pull John away from the window, but froze when he saw Moriarty.

It wasn’t the shock of seeing him alive that stopped Sherlock; he’d never doubted that the other man was still alive. It was the manic glint in his eye. “I’d started to think you weren’t coming,” Moriarty murmured, grinning wolfishly as he closed the door. He glanced to Watson and added, “He seemed to think you were dead.”

“He was supposed to,” Holmes responded, his voice quiet. “What is this about?”

“And you’re supposed to be clever,” the Irishman teased as he stepped into the room. “Don’t you remember what I told you? You die or he does.” Sherlock swallowed deeply, watching him, his heart pounding. “And now I’ve got you both. The only two people who know about me.”

“Let him go,” Sherlock whispered, keeping his body between the window and John. He was pleased to see that the dot was no longer on Watson’s forehead. “He’s got nothing to do with this. He still thinks I’m dead.”

Moriarty shook his head, giving a soft ‘tsk’ sound. “The arrangement wasn’t that he thought you killed yourself. It was that you did kill yourself. And now, just because you tried to trick me, you both die."

Holmes stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out a way to reason with the Irishman. “And what about the other two. I thought you threatened Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson too.”

“Oh, I did. But in all these years, you didn’t regret leaving them, did you? Your only regret was him!” He pointed at John, his voice raising on the last word.

The doctor stirred at the sound and gave a soft moan, the noise muffled by the tape. That sound nearly broke Sherlock’s heart, but he did his best to keep his face straight. He knew that if he showed any emotion, it was over. If Moriarty knew how much Sherlock cared for John, there would be no chance of either of them getting out of this alive.

The Irishman stepped up behind John and put his hands on the doctor’s shoulders, drawing another moan from him. “Let’s wait for him to wake up and see what the tearful reunion is like, shall we? The fraud and the sacrificial lamb together again.”

Sherlock glanced at the doctor and saw that his eyes were fluttering, growing close to opening. His heart beat faster. He was running out of time. Willing John to stay unconscious for a few minutes more, Sherlock racked his brain. "You and I both know I can't do anything to prove I'm not a fraud. What makes you think I'm going to come out of hiding?

Jim shook his head, his hand twitching a little. “Because that’s what you do. You’re not content until you’ve proven to everybody that you’re right and they’re wrong.”

Sherlock took a small step forward as Jim squeezed John’s shoulders again, his eyes flicking down to the doctor. “Let him go,” he whispered, looking back to Moriarty.

“Ooh, did I find a sore spot?” Jim teased as he moved his hands to John’s neck. The soft hiss of the doctor’s breath cut off as Moriarty squeezed there.

“Stop it,” Sherlock yelled as he stepped forward, trying to pry those hands away. After nearly a minute, the taller man looked to Moriarty, his eyes oddly calm. "If you kill him, you have no way to control me." At those words, the Irishman finally released Watson’s neck, whose head slumped forward. Sherlock knelt in front of the blond, his eyes quickly flicking over the doctor’s abused body. His blood froze as he realized Watson wasn’t breathing.

“Come on, John,” he whispered, patting the other’s cheeks gently, “breathe.” He repeated himself a few times, his voice growing more and more panicked as the seconds passed. He was finally rewarded by a quiet gasp. His first few breaths were shaky and irregular, but after several tense seconds, John’s breathing evened out.

Sherlock's relief was cut short as he heard a faint click and cold metal pressed to his temple. Before he looked up, he knew that there was a gun against his head.

Moriarty’s eyes were cold as he stared down at Sherlock, his finger on the trigger. “Back up against the wall,” he whispered softly. When Holmes didn’t move, the Irishman moved his arm so the gun was pointing at John instead. “Get against the wall,” he ordered again, not taking his eyes off of Holmes.

Sherlock quickly stood and backed up towards the wall. As soon as he moved away, the sniper sight appeared on John’s forehead again. When his back was firmly pressed against the wall, Moriarty moved the gun back to Holmes, but the taller man didn’t take his eyes from John. “Oh good, you’re going to behave,” the Irishman said softly. Sherlock glanced to Moriarty in time to see him set the gun on the table, then looked at the door.

Sherlock looked away after a second and swallowed deeply, his heart pounding. After taking a deep breath, steeling himself, the taller man suddenly jumped toward John. Time seemed to slow down.

As soon as he moved, he saw the shock on Moriarty’s face, which quickly turned into rage as he reached for the pistol on the table. But even as Jim grabbed the gun, a shot rang out from across the street. The window shattered as Sherlock started pushing John towards the wall, covering as much of the doctor’s body as he could. The door slammed open as a line of white-hot pain stabbed into Holmes’ shoulder.

As Sherlock and John crashed to the floor, Holmes’ cheek striking there hard, several police officers rushed into the room and quickly disarmed Moriarty. He'd called them on the way to the house, expecting them to arrive just after he did. Two officers went to cover the window as the rest cuffed the Irishman and saw to the two injured men. As one of the officers started radioing for an ambulance, Sherlock closed his eyes, still laying on top of John.

#

John woke slowly, fighting off grogginess. His whole body hurt, but as he remembered what he’d been through over the past three days, it struck him as odd that it didn’t hurt worse. There was a lot of noise, but it was muffled, coming from either far away or through a wall. He smelled something sterile, but he couldn’t place it.

Then it clicked.

Antiseptic.

Hospital.

He slowly opened one eye and fought for a second to get the other one open, but he quickly gave up on that. The light streaming in from the window told him it was mid-morning. With a soft, painful groan he looked around the room. What he saw next almost made him pass out again.

His lips formed the words, “It’s impossible,” but no sound came out.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting next to the bed, asleep. He’d changed little in the last three years. His arm was in a sling, and he had a faint bruise on his cheek, but he was undoubtedly alive.

As he tried to work out how it was possible, Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes opened. He rubbed at one eye before looking over to John, who was still staring at him. “Sherlock…” Watson whispered, his voice sounding hoarse.

“Um…hi, John,” the consulting detective replied, shifting in his seat. As Watson opened his mouth to speak again, Sherlock stopped him. “You shouldn’t talk.” As John studied the other man, he tried reaching for him to see if he was just imagining the other man there. But one hand was in a cast and the other had an IV in it that stopped him short of touching Sherlock. “I’m real, John,” Holmes whispered, his fingers lightly brushing the blond's cheek.

“How?” the doctor croaked, close to falling asleep again.

“I’ll explain later.” Sherlock hesitated a moment before whispering, “Are you still at Baker street?

John nodded slowly, fighting to keep his eye open. For almost a year after Sherlock’s death, he’d hardly set foot in the flat. There were just too many memories. He’d been staying with his sister, but she wanted him to move out. He couldn’t afford to pay for two places, and he couldn’t bear the thought of someone else living in the flat, nor could he ask Mrs. Hudson to keep it empty. So he’d moved back in. There were still some things there from the night they’d been arrested.

“Is it okay if I come back?” Sherlock asked as John’s eye slid closed.

After a long moment, John nodded and murmured, “Pick up some milk."


End file.
